Corroboree

by Graham Masterton

  Joolonga said flatly, ‘It was necessary for you to know sooner or later. Captain Sturt said that I should tell you the night before we expected to reach Yonguldye’s encampment. However, I saw that you were seeking an explanation for that corroboree which was held during the night; and that unless you were given an answer, you might decide to return to Adelaide.’

  ‘What makes you think that I’m not going to return to Adelaide even now?’

  ‘You are a young man, Mr Walker-sir. You have ideals that older men no longer have; and you are ready to believe things which older men no longer believe. But I have seen that you make your mistakes once only; and that you learn as quickly as a dingo. You know that you will go on, if only to prove to Captain Sturt that you can do everything he expected you to do, only better. Ahead, there is a chance of fame and wealth. Behind, only confusion and disgrace. This is not a country which rewards those who surrender, Mr Walker-sir, no matter what the perils may be.’

  Eyre said, ‘Very well, we’re going on. But let me warn you, Joolonga, everything I said to you yesterday still applies. I’ve had enough of your secrets, and enough of your arrogant manners. We’re going under my terms, not yours, and certainly not under Captain Sturt’s. When we catch up with Yonguldye, it will be my decision how we approach him; and I will want nothing more from you than to act as my interpreter. Because, by God, if you cross me once more, Joolonga, I will have your head off for it.’

  Joolonga bowed his head, and then trod heavily away to sort out the horses. Eyre stayed where he was for a while, breathing deeply, and wondering what in all Heaven he ought to do. The sharpest pain of all was that Christopher should have talked about him to Captain Sturt’s friend before the Spring Ball; and that he should actually have taken money to persuade Eyre to come along with him that night. No wonder Christopher had seemed so angry when Captain Sturt had done nothing at all to dissuade Eyre from setting out to find Yonguldye. No wonder he had tried to say that night how much he loved Eyre; and how much he revered him.

  It had been the love of Judas; the reverence of guilt.

  Twenty-Three

  They crossed the salt lake towards Parachilna like slowly-moving figures in a sparkling dream. The sun shone with such shattering brilliance on the swathes of dried-out, coloured minerals that made up the lakebed; almost blinding them; that Eyre devised himself a pair of spectacles made of smoked pieces of bottle glass and wire; and rode through the days of heat and dust like Mephistopheles.

  He hardly spoke at all to any of his companions; and in return they kept well away from him, Dogger and Christopher and Midgegooroo and Weeip riding in a small, close bunch, with the pack-horses on either side of them, although Joolonga rode closer to Eyre, and a little off to the right, as if he were privy to his secrets, if not his thoughts.

  During the whole length of those glaring days, Eyre could think about nothing but Captain Sturt, and how he had betrayed him; and Christopher, too, and how Christopher had hurt him more than Eyre could have imagined possible. He ate in silence at their evening fires; and slept apart in his bedroll. In the morning, with the sun rising over the crust of the lake like the unwelcome visitation of some incandescent Presence from heaven itself, he would mount up and ride ahead of them again, silently, blind-eyed, his face wrapped in scarves against the saline dust. Dogger began to talk of sunstroke, and bush-madness, and of turning back. But Christopher perversely began to talk about Eyre as if he were a doomed young knight from medieval days on a quest for the Holy Grail; and far from faltering, his enthusiasm for the expedition grew even more complicated, and more involved.

  They reached Parachilna on a surprisingly mild evening, when a light dusty wind was blowing, and there were clouds moving along the horizon like sailing-ships in a nearby harbour. The rusty-coloured peaks of the north Flinders rose all around them now, the dry, wrinkled peaks of a once-forested mountain range. Eyre dismounted, and began to walk his horse up a twisting creek-bed; and there was no sound but the clinking of fragments of slate disturbed by its hoofs, and the whirrr-whirrr-whirrr of the cicadas.

  Dogger gave his horse to Midgegooroo to lead, and hurried up the creekbed to overtake Eyre before they started climbing up the more gentle slope ahead of them.

  ‘Eyre,’ he said, taking hold of Eyre’s bridle. ‘Eyre, you can’t continue like this. Come on, mate. You’ve got the rest of us to think about, apart from yourself.’

  Eyre was silent for a while, standing very upright, his face floury with dust. His eyes were invisible behind the two darkened curves of smoked glass; like the eyes of an insect.

  ‘I suppose you want me to sing and joke,’ he said, at last.

  ‘Well, why not?’ Dogger told him. ‘This is a miserable enough business as it is, without a little fun. And damn it, Eyre, you used to be fun. What about those evenings on Hindley Street? Two jugs of beer and you and me were laughing fit to bust our trousers. What happened to all that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Eyre. He truly didn’t know. He felt as if all the fun had been evaporated out of him, by the sun; as if now he had been kippered into mirthlessness, sexlessness, and irascibility; a leathery ascetic in search of a dried-up ideal. He no longer knew why he was here; or what moral principle he was trying to uphold. He had lost his faith in Christopher; his trust in Joolonga; and his enjoyment of Dogger.

  Dogger said bluntly, ‘If you don’t snap yourself out of this, old mate, I’m turning back. I know this territory, as far as here. I came out here once, looking for emu. But I’m not going any further; not unless I get some sign from you that things are jogging along as they ought to be. I’m game for adventure, Eyre. But I don’t intend to die for no good reason; and especially not without a smile on my fizzog. Anyone who comes out beyond the black stump with a mien as miserable as what yours is; well, mate, they’re certain dingo-fodder, that’s all, and I didn’t spend twenty years hunting down dogs to end up as dog’s breakfast, nor dinner, nor hoose-doovries neither.’

  Eyre lowered his head, and brushed white dust from his curls with the back of his hand. Then he carefully took off his dark glasses, and looked at Dogger, and grinned.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’ve been a sour and miserable bastard, and I’m sorry. But let’s go on.’

  ‘We can turn back if you want to. Nobody will think the less of you.’

  Eyre shook his head. ‘I’ve forgotten why I’m here. The whole desert is so overwhelming that I don’t think I really care any more. But let’s go on.’

  ‘And you’ll smile, now and then?’ urged Dogger.

  Eyre nodded.

  ‘Not just at me and Weeip; but at Christopher, too. You’ve been giving him a pretty uncomfortable time, these past three days. Come on, Eyre, you know it.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Christopher caught up with them, leading his horse with difficulty up the narrow, fragmented creek-bed. He frowned at Eyre from beneath the brim of his wide kangaroo-skin hat, and there was a look in his eyes which was a mixture of admiration and despair; a look to which Eyre was bound to respond. Bound not only by their friendship; but by plain human dignity; and by the circumstances in which they now found themselves, hundreds of miles from anything but scrub and salt and mountains as dry as a nine-hour sermon.

  Eyre let go of his bridle, and came forward over the clattering slate, and put his arms around Christopher, and held him close; and then turned to Dogger, and held out an arm for him, and embraced him, too. And the three of them stood under the violet evening sky, on the side of a rust-red mountain, holding each other in the comradeship that would one day be known in the outback as ‘mateship’; the love man-for-man that is blatantly forged on the battered anvil of self-preservation; the love that knows neither dignity nor suspicion; that asks no questions; and expresses no desires; but which fades in city streets as rapidly as an uprooted desert rose.

  Joolonga watched this embrace dispassionately from the ridge above the creek-bed, among the vivid-green acacia
s. Weeip and Midgegooroo stood by their pack-horses, equally expressionless, both of them chewing on pitjuri leaves, which always made them placid and detached.,

  At last, Eyre said, ‘Let’s get ahead. It’s going to be dark before long and I want to find a decent place to camp.’ He felt more encouraged now, especially since Christopher had made it quite clear that he would follow him and support him wherever he went. ‘Joolonga,’ he called, ‘do you think there’s any chance of catching up with Yonguldye before nightfall?’

  ‘I smell an encampment close, Mr Walker-sir; big one. See, there is smoke over the ridge there.’

  ‘Do you think it’s a good idea just to go barging in to a strange community of blackfellows?’ asked Dogger. ‘I’ve heard that some tribes are quite partial to explorer casserole.’

  Eyre put on his dark glasses again. ‘We’ll carry the rifles with us; just in case. Midgegooroo, unpack three rifles for us, will you; three; and make sure that they’re properly loaded, the way I showed you.’

  He felt in his pocket and made sure he had one essential item: his magical mana stone. Weeip came up and brought them water. There were streams running through the Flinders, which the Aborigines called aroona; streams which bubbled up from underground springs and danced their way down between the limestone rocks, sometimes forming pools of stunning clarity. The water attracted sea-birds, grey teal and white-faced tern, as well as wallabies and euros and emus, so there would be plenty of fresh food for them to eat while they were here.

  Eyre led them up the creek-bed until they found themselves in a wide gorge, with overhanging rocks rising up on three sides; and extraordinarily, like a silently-shrieking governess throwing herself from an attic window, a single ghost-gum growing out from the rocks almost thirty feet above their heads.

  Eyre said, ‘We’ll leave the horses here. Weeip, you keep watch on them. Joolonga, Midgegooroo, you come up with us. If we can find Yonguldye, we’ll come back and fetch the horses; if we can’t, we’ll settle here for the night. Weeip?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Wakasah?’

  ‘Light yourself a fire. If we don’t find Yonguldye, we’ll be hungry by the time we get back.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Wakasah. And—Mr Wakasah?’

  ‘What is it, Weeip?’

  Young Weeip covered his face with his hands, so that his dark eyes sparkled through the gaps between his fingers. ‘Don’t bring back the devil-devil, Mr Wakasah.’

  Eyre knelt down beside him. Weeip kept his hands over his face, and his soft curly hair blew in the evening breeze. ‘You’re not scared of the devil-devil, are you?’ Eyre asked him, kindly.

  Dogger laughed; and snorted. But all the same, he looked around the gorge with sudden apprehension, as if Weeip’s fear had attracted the first flickering coldness of Koobooboodgery, the night spirit. Christopher coughed into his hand.

  ‘I feel the devil-devil, Mr Wakasah. Something bad here. Yea though I walk through the alley of the valley of death.’

  Eyre glanced up at Joolonga. ‘Joolonga?’ he asked. ‘Do you sense anything?’

  Joolonga took off his midshipman’s hat and raised his flat nose to the wind. He remained like that for a few moments, his face concentrated and fierce, but then he said, ‘Only fires, Mr Walker-sir. No evil spirits.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said Eyre, and stood up. ‘Let’s go and see if we can find our man. You know, I’m almost sorry I didn’t bring my bicycle. Can you imagine what a rip it would be to cycle all the way down that creek-bed?’

  Dogger picked up his rifle, and slung it on to his back. ‘Surprising how a few hills can cheer a fellow up, isn’t it? It’s the flatness that makes you feel like giving up, and killing yourself. One old dogger I knew, Bill Hardcastle, he used to curse the desert for hours on end, because it was flat. You never heard such language in your whole life; and every insult for flat that you could think of. He used to say that it was all God’s fault, the desert. God ran out of ideas, he said, and said to the Angel Gabriel, what shall I do with the rest of this world? And Gabriel said, “Oh, I shouldn’t bother if I were you; leave it flat.” So that’s what He did. Mind you, he could catch dingoes, could Bill; even the ones that could sniff out a trap from a mile away. He’d set up scarecrows and windmills alongside his traps; just enough to catch the dog’s attention, so that the dog wouldn’t notice where it was walking. Then snap, and the dog was catched. God’s featureless folly, that was one of the names he called the desert. Poor old Bill.’

  ‘Why “poor old Bill”?’ asked Christopher.

  Dogger spat inaccurately at a lump of euro dung on the rocks. ‘Gave up dogging, did Bill, went back to Melbourne, and tripped over a mounting-block by the side of the road and broke his neck.’

  With Joolonga leading the way, and Eyre close behind him, they climbed the side of the gorge. The rock was flaky in places, and once or twice Eyre missed his footing and skidded backwards, sending showers of stones down on Christopher’s head; but at last they crested the gorge and found themselves walking along a high spine of mauvish-coloured limestone, with the higher peaks around the Yarrakinna ochre-mine rising off to their left, blood-red against a blood-red sky.

  They crossed a low, gentle valley of lemon-scented grasses. Here and there, they came across clumps of the startling red-and-black flowers which had been named for Captain Sturt—Sturt’s desert pea. They had petals like the gaudy hoods of elfish cardinals, hung up in the vestry.

  The air was aromatic with eucalyptus oil and the dryness of emu bushes but now Eyre, too, could pick out the distinctive smell of cooking-fires. Joolonga was twenty or thirty paces ahead of him now, his head down, following the tracks of Yonguldye’s people through the grassy sand.

  Christopher said, ‘I hope we know what we’re getting ourselves into.’

  Eyre ran his hand through his tangled curls. ‘Don’t worry about it, old chum. I’ve talked to Joolonga, and Joolonga says that the Aborigines really want us here. To them, this expedition is vitally important. Apparently, it was foretold in the dreamtime; and it has some sort of magical significance for them.’

  ‘I’m still not desperately happy about it,’ remarked Dogger, laconically. ‘They’re a funny lot, these bush blackfellows. Different from the tame characters you see around town. Funny ideas; and very quick to take the huff.’

  The ground had been steadily rising, and the grass becoming increasingly sparse, until they were walking on bare limestone again; over ridges that had been scoured by sand and worried by water. At last, they saw the bright blue haze of cooking-smoke rising up ahead of them; and Joolonga turned to Eyre and raised ten fingers twice, which meant twenty fires, at least.

  ‘Quite a gathering,’ said Eyre. ‘It seems as if we’re expected.’

  Christopher held back. ‘Eyre, listen—we ought to approach these people with the greatest of caution.’

  Eyre walked back and took hold of the straps of Christopher’s satchel, and drew him forward. ‘They’re not going to hurt us, I promise you. Tell him, Joolonga. They think that I’m a messenger from the spirit world, or something like that. Everything’s going to be perfectly all right.’

  Dogger said to Joolonga, ‘What’s your opinion, squash-face? You’re supposed to be the guide. Do you know these people? What are they, Wirangu?’

  ‘Some Wirangu, some Nyungar, maybe some from Murray River.’

  ‘Are they friendly, or what? And what’s all this about our friend here being a messenger from the spirit world?’

  ‘It is what they believe, Mr Dogger. It is a long-ago story which they now seem to think has come true.’

  ‘And has it?’

  ‘We must see, Mr Dogger,’ said Joolonga.

  At that moment, so silently that even Joolonga was startled, three skeleton-figures rose up from the rocks nearby; three Aborigine warriors smeared with grease and pipeclay and ochre, their hair wound with twine and decorated with scores of wind-twirled emu feathers. Each of them carried a long spear and a woomera; with clubs tied aroun
d their waists. One of them also had a dead tern hanging around his waist, a bird he must have caught while waiting and watching for Eyre’s expedition to make its way up the mountains.

  ‘Christopher, Dogger,’ said Eyre, and beckoned them to stand closer to him. All three of them raised their rifles, and cocked them ready for firing. Midgegooroo remained where he was; but Joolonga raised one hand and stepped forward, until he was fewer than ten paces away from the nearest tribesman. He spoke quickly, first in Nyungar, which was the nearest that South Australia’s tribes had to a common language; and then in Wirangu. The tribesman did not deign to reply at first, but looked haughtily from Joolonga to his three white companions, and then to Midgegooroo.

  ‘What did you say to him?’ asked Eyre.

  ‘I said that you were the chosen djanga, and that you were seeking to talk to Yonguldye the Mabarn Man.’

  Tell him again,’ said Eyre.

  ‘Wait,’ advised Joolonga.

  They stood their ground. It was beginning to grow dark now; and against the gradually thickening sky, the three Aborigine warriors looked as wild and primaeval as Cro-Magnon men. One of them pointed with his spear at Midgegooroo, and indicated that he should move closer to Eyre and Christopher and Dogger; and this Midgegooroo reluctantly did. Eyre lifted his rifle-stock up to his shoulder, and took aim at the tribesman who stood furthest off to the left. He was silhouetted sharply against the last of the daylight, and made by far the easiest target.

  ‘Be careful, Mr Walker-sir,’ said Joolonga. ‘If you should shoot by mistake, there is no telling what they might do.’

  Tell them again that I am the djanga who has come to talk to Yonguldye, Eyre insisted. ‘And also tell them that we are all ngaitye. We are all friends.’

  Joolonga hesitated, but then rapidly spoke to the tribesmen again.

  ‘If you want my opinion,’ said Dogger, ‘We should drop the lot of them here and now, before they know what’s hit them; and then leg it back to the horses at top belt.’